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COMRADES  OF  THE  MIST 


Comrades  of  the  Mist 

and  other 

Rhymes  of  the  Grand  Fleet 


hy 
LIEUT.  COMDR.  EUGENE  E.  WILSON 

U.  S.  NAVY 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  SULLY  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1919, 

By  GEORGE  SULLY  &  CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


s 


DEDICATION. 

To  our  "Comrades  of  the  Mist" — the 
officers  and  men  of  the  British  Grand 
Fleet,  this  volume  is  affectionately  dedi- 
cated. 

E.  E.  W. 


623873 


FOREWORD 

Many  of  the  verses  In  this  volume  appeared  first 
in  the  weekly  newspaper  of  the  United  States  Ship 
ARKANSAS  at  a  time  when  she  was  attached  to 
the  Sixth  Battle  Squadron  of  the  Grand  Fleet.  This 
squadron  was  under  the  command  of  Rear  Admiral 
Hugh  Rodman,  U.  S.  N.,  familiarly  known  as  "Old 
AC6"  (Admiral  Commanding  Sixth  Battle  Squad- 
ron), who  flew  his  flag  on  the  NEW  YORK.  The 
remaining  ships  were  the  WYOMING,  FLORIDA 
and  TEXAS,  making  a  crack  squadron  of  America's 
best.  This  squadron  constituted  one  of  the  units  of 
the  Grand  Fleet  under  Admiral  Sir  David  Beatty, 
R.  N.  and  shared  with  the  British  the  long  vigil  in 
the  North  Sea.  When  not  steaming  on  one  duty  or 
another,  the  fleet  was  based  either  at  Scapa  Flow,  in 
the  Orkney  Islands,  or  on  Rosyth,  in  the  Firth  of 
Forth,  Scotland. 

One  of  the  most  difficult  problems  of  the  whole 
campaign  consisted  in  keeping  the  crews  fit  in  spite 
of  the  enforced  long  stay  aboard  ship.  The 
weekly  paper,  the  ARKLIGHT,  was  one  of  the 
sources  of  amusement  for  all  hands.  This  little 
sheet  was  unique  in  that  practically  everything 
published  was  written  on  board.  None  of  the 
contributions  were  signed  and  the  authors  were 
often  unknown  even  to  the  staff.  In  order  that 
it  might  be  sent  through  the  mails  the  paper  had 
to  comply  with  the  censorship  regulations,  yet  it 


FOREWORD 

was  possible  for  one  who  knew  how,  to  read  be- 
tween the  lines  and  guess  what  was  going  on. 
Perhaps  the  best  indication  of  the  character  of 
the  paper  is  found  in  the  heading  of  one  of  the 
issues  which  reads  as  follows: 

THE  ARKLIGHT. 

Founded  sometime  A.  D.  191 8. 

Published  weekly  on  board  the  U.  S.  S.  ARKANSAS 

Our  motto : 
"Distemper  Intemus,"  meaning  "fVe  should  worry" 

Subscription  Rates: 

One  year Nothing 

Six  months Nothing  and  a  half 

Three  months Less  than  nothing 

We  print  no  liquor  or  patent  medicine  advertise- 
ments. The  ARKLIGHT  has  the  greatest  unpaid 
subscription  of  any  newspaper  east  of  Greenwich 
and  north  of  Fifty-five. 

All  manuscripts  must  be  submitted  with  the 
authors  full  name.  We  cannot  publish  articles 
signed  "K.  C.  B.",  "B.  L.  T."  etc. 

Entered  at  the  ARKANSAS  postoffice  as  the 
worst  class  of  mail  matter. 

PASSED  BY  CENSOR. 

In  collecting  these  verses,  the  names  of  the 
authors  have  been  ascertained  and  are  given 

10 


FOREWORD 

under  the  titles  where  possible.  After  months 
in  the  North  Sea  I  feel  capable  of  assuming  the 
responsibility  for  the  others  no  matter  how  reck- 
less it  may  seem. 

It  is  hoped  that  these  rhymes,  by  reflecting  some 
of  the  spirit  of  the  Grand  Fleet,  may  help  to  bring 
out  of  its  self-imposed  obscurity  Britain's  splendid 
"Silent  Service." 

E.  E.  W. 


XI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Comrades  of  the  Mist      .     ....  17 

Cheer  O!       .....>:...  19 

Here  and  There 20 

Deep  Stuff 21 

The  Gob 23 

Poor  Fish! 26 

Mail-OI .29 

Der  Tag 30 

The  Clinker 31 

The  Naval  Officers'  Rubaiyat  ...  33 

The  Dead  Line 35 

The  Sky  Gun 37 

Smokes 39 

The  Censor 40 

When  the  Grand  Fleet  Goes  to  Sea    .  42 

Sea-Going  Mother  Goose      ....  45 

The  Guns 47 

Sea-Surgery        49 

Heads  Up!     ...........  ^0 

13 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  National  Ij^stitution    .     .•    .     .  52 

The  Fleet  Inside    .......  53 

The  Bunker  Plate      .    >;    .    ■..-.    ■..     .  54 

The  Kill v    >     .  55 

The  Sweepers    .     .     .     .-    .     .     .    >  58 

Stories  for  Our  Sons  ......  59 

The  Flying-Bloke       .     ...    ..     .  61 

The  Coxswain's  Line 63 

The  Captain 65 

Sing  a  Song  for  Navy 67 

Ask  a  British  Naval  Officer      .    ..     .  68 

Scotland  Forever! 71 

Crosses 72 

Scuttlebutt 74 

The  Mine  Force 75 

Arahstice  Night 78 

The  Sailor's  Luck 83 

The  Surrender 86 

Peggy  of  the  Pier 88 

''Good-Bye-E-E-E!"       .     .     .     .     .     .  90 

14 


COMRADES  OF  THE  MIST 


COMRADES  OF  THE  MIST 

Where  the  long  bridge  spans  the  mighty  Forth, 

Twixt  towering  headlands  bold, 
And  thin  white  fog  drifts  silently, 

Dank  and  grey  and  cold. 
There  lean  grey  ships  at  anchor  ride, 

Their  guns  by  the  salt  breeze  kissed. 
Ah,  they  are  the  flower  of  Britain's  power, 

Our  Comrades  of  the  Mist. 


When  the  North  Wind  whipped  the  frothing  sea 

And  drove  the  biting  spray; 
When  the  great  fleet  smashed  the  towering  wave 

And  sped  upon  its  way; 
When  the  mighty  ships  rolled  heavily. 

And  driving  rain  squalls  hissed. 
How  proud  were  we  to  sail  the  sea, 

With  our  Comrades  of  the  Mist. 

17 


COMRADES  OF  THE  MIST 

Down  through  the  years  that  are  to  come, 

When  we've  gone  our  several  ways, 
To  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth, 

That  bask  in  the  sun's  warm  rays. 
We'll  dream  of  the  days  when  we  were  part, 

Of  Britain's  strong  mailed  fist — 
When  we  kept  the  sea  and  nations  free, 

With  our  Comrades  of  the  Mist. 


|8 


CHEER-0! 

The  British  have  a  funny  word, 

Cheer-O! 
At  first  it  seemed  a  bit  absurd — 

Cheer-O! 
They  said  it  when  we  joined  the  Fleet, 

They  say  it  now  when  e're  we  meet, 
Till  smilingly  we  all  repeat, 

Cheer-O! 


They  say  it  when  they  take  a  drink — 

Cheer-O! 
They  say  it  in  their  sleep,  I  think — 

Cheer-O! 
They'll  say  it  when  they  meet  the  Hun, 

They'll  fire  it  with  the  opening  gun. 
They'll  sing  it  when  the  battle's  won— 

Cheer-O  I 


19 


HERE  AND  THERE 

While  ''Over  Here" 

We  spent  a  year 

And  didn't  think  it  fair, 

That  all  the  boys 

And  all  the  noise, 

Were  going  "Over  There," 

In  old  Base  Two, 

We  oft  were  blue. 

Because  we  vegetated, 

And  did  our  bits 

A  riding  jits. 

To  towns  we  always  hated. 

But  now  we  sing 
A  different  thing. 
And  no  one  has  a  care, 
Since  "Over  There" 
Is  over  here 
And  "Over  Here" 
Is  there. 


20 


DEEP  STUFF 

I'm  a  hardened  son  of  the  briny  deep, 
Barnacled,  hairy  and  mean. 

I'm  the  hardest,  toughest,  ugliest  cuss, 
That  anyone  ever  has  seen. 

And  yet  there's  a  mystery  even  for  me- 
Solved  I'm  afraid  it  never  v^ill  be; 

Say,  what  the  Heck  does  a  seaman  see? 


IVe  sailed  with  old  seadogs,  captains  and  such, 

So  mean  they  could  get  their  own  goats. 
The  kind  that  drinks  long  from  the  little  brown 

And  ships  with  a  hard  line  of  boats. 
And  yet  there's  a  riddle — say,  give  me  a  tip 

About  these  old  guys  that's  so  fond  of  their 
nip; 
Now  what  the  Heck  does  a  skipper  skip? 

21 


DEEP  STUFF 

And  as  for  those  soft-fingered,  cotton-mouthed 
guys 

We  carry  around  on  our  craft, 
To  pound  the  typewriters  and  trim  the  Exec, 

And  pull  what  they  can  in  their  graft. 
Believe  me,  I  don't  think  I  ever  will  know, 

No  matter  how  far  on  the  briny  I  go — 
Now  what  the  Heck  does  a  yeoman  yeo? 


What  the  Heck  does  a  yeoman  yeo? 

I  ask  you  that  as  we  sail  along; 
What  the  Heck  does  a  bos'n  bo? 

Just  add  that  verse  to  your  little  song; 
What  the  Heck  does  a  cutter  cut? 

What  does  a  whaler  whale? 
What  the  Heck  does  the  anchor-watch  watch? 

And  the  modern  sailor  sail? 
Answer  me  these,  you  raw  recruit 

And  you'll  be  the  "Salt"  while  I'll  be  the 
"Boot." 


29 


THE  GOB 

What  a  name  for  any  man 

To  saddle  on  himself,  you  say, 

And  yet  its  choice  exemplifies, 

The  sailor's  own  peculiar  way. 

He'd  like  to  make  you  think  him  hard, 
And  so  he  swaggers  in  his  walk, 

Injecting  salty  epithets 

Into  his  loud  sea-going  talk. 

And,  frosty  mornings,  up  on  deck. 
He'll  push  a  rasping  holystone, 

Barefooted,  in  his  undershirt — 
And  grumble  in  an  undertone. 

Because  the  Bos-n  bawls  him  out. 

For  banging  up  his  neighbor's  toes. 

When  that  young  man  has  wet  him  down, 
With  water  from  a  fire  hose. 

23 


THE  GOB 

Or  on  the  bridge  when  in  the  cold, 

Of  driving  snow  and  freezing  spray, 

He  stands  his  chilly  hours  of  watch 
Yet  always  seems  to  find  some  ray 

Of  sunshine  and  of  happiness — 

The  fiercer  blows  the  raging  gale, 

The  more  he  seems  to  like  the  night  — 
It  keeps  his  life  from  getting  stale. 

And  down  below  he'll  wield  the  bar 
And  swing  the  heavy  ash  pan  hoe 

And  buck  the  flaming  roaring  fires. 
As  if  they  were  a  deadly  foe. 

Because  he  dearly  loves  the  fight 

And  never  seems  to  get  enough — 

I  think  he  mostly  loves  the  sea, 

Because  it's  fierce  and  treats  him  rough. 

And  yet  it'  all  a  pose  with  him. 

He  isn't  really  hard  at  all, 
But  just  a  manly,  upright  boy, 

Who'll  answer  to  your  every  call 

With  every  thing  that  in  him  is — 

By  day  or  night  it's  just  the  same  — 

He'll  stand  behind  you  to  the  last, 
If  you  will  only  play  the  game. 

24 


THE  GOB 

Funny  name  and  funny  Ideas, 

Has  your  salty  friend  the  gob, 

But  he'll  die  for  you  a  smiling 

If  you're  "white"  and  on  the  job. 


35 


POOR  FISHl 

LIEUTENANT  M.  A.  LEE,  U.  S.  N. 

How  lively  is  the  silent  clam! 

He  never  really  gives  a  damn; 
And  there,  my  dear,  his  virtue  lies, 

At  least  to  my  adoring  eyes. 


Behold,  my  child,  the  little  fish, 

Exuding  perfume  on  the  dish; 
Not  always  was  his  life  work  food, 

With  stuffings  and  with  bones  endued, 
But  once  he  swam  the  deep  blue  sea, 

Nor  gave  a  damn  for  you  or  me; 
Until  one  day,  with  famished  look, 

He  bit  for  food  and  got  the  hook. 


POOR  FISH! 

Behold  the  all-enormous  whale — 

One-third  is  fish,  the  rest  is  tail — 
And  yet  the  former,  so  they  say, 

Makes  all  the  rest  get  under  way. 
Hast  seen  him  spout  vast  seas  of  water — 

A  habit  which  he  hadn't  oughter? 
It  was  a  whale  which  Jonah  used, 

When  on  the  oceans  deep  he  cruised. 
The  story's  good,  but  Jonah's  exit. 

For  me  at  least  completely  wrecks  it. 


Oh  see,  my  child,  the  ugly  shark! 

His  ways  are  morbid,  dank  and  dark. 
And  all  the  fishes  of  the  sea. 

Turn  on  their  tails  and  straightway  flee, 
Because  he  has  an  appetite. 

Which  keeps  him  moving,  day  and  night, 
Nor  does  he,  when  he  spies  a  man, 

Make  the  best  exit  that  he  can — 
But  rather,  in  his  playsome  way. 

Considers  man  a  mere  entree. 


I  like  to  think  upon  the  germ, 

And  then  compare  it  with  the  worm. 
The  likeness  I  will  show  next  time. 

For  now,  enough  that  they  will  rhyme. 

27 


POOR  FISH 

Just  think  with  what  palatial  ease, 

The  little  rascal  spreads  disease — 
One  minute  born,  the  second  off, 

To  give  some  child  the  whooping  cough. 
It  turns  around  and  at  you  jumps — 

First  thing  you  know  you've  got  the  mumps. 
If  married,  with  what  little  trouble, 

A  germ  can  find  its  life-like  double, 
And  quicker  than  you'd  bat  an  eye — 

The  dern  thing's  got  an  alibi! 


28 


MAIL-O! 

ENSIGN  HUTCHISON,  U.  S.  N. 

Coaling,  Coaling,  Coaling, 

Our  work  is  never  done; 
The  drills  are  long,  the  life's  all  wrong, 

The  rain  has  drowned  the  sun. 

Mail-Ol  Mail-01  Mail-0! 

Letters  for  the  Ark; 
This  life  for  me!    A  man  at  sea, 
Finds  wars  like  this  a  lark. 


29 


DER  TAG 

LIEUT.  H.  E.  CRESSMAN,  U.  S.  N. 

When  eau  de  cologne  comes  from  limberger 
cheese, 

When  the  jelly  fish  swallows  the  whale; 
When  kangaroos  roost  on  gooseberry  trees 

And  grasshoppers  feed  upon  quail; 


When  the  laws  of  gravity  cease  to  exist 
And  the  rivers  all  run  up  hill; 

When  young  Americans  no  more  enlist 
To  shoot  at  "All  Highest  Bill"; 


When   bumblebees  whistle   "Die  Wacht  Am 
Rhine"; 

When  feathers  are  found  upon  frogs 
When  the  mule  is  blessed  with  a  voice  divine, 

And  humming  birds  prey  upon  hogs; 


When    submarines   swim   through    the   air   at 
night; 

When  powder  won't  burn  m  our  guns — 
Then  maybe  our  allies  will  give  up  the  fight 

And  the  world  will  be  ruled  by  the  Huns. 


30 


THE  CLINKER 

When  the  ship  drives  on  through  the  tumbling 
sea, 

And  speeds  through  the  darkest  night, 
With  the  steady  wash  of  turning  screws, 

That  drive  her  in  her  flight; 
And  you,  in  your  bunk  or  up  on  deck, 

Have  naught  to  do  but  ride, 
Do  you  ever  think  of  the  watch  below, 

Have  you  ever  thought  what  drives  her  so, 
Or  have  you  never  tried? 


Do  you  ever  picture  the  turning  wheels 

Or  flashing  rods  of  steel, 
Or  hissing  steam  or  scorching  heat, 

Way  down  there  near  the  keel; 
Do  you  ever  think  of  the  black  stoke-hold. 

And  its  sweating,  straining  crew; 
Do  you  ever  think  of  the  flaming  bed. 

In  that  gaping  maw  that  must  be  fed, 
Or  is  it  strange  to  you? 

31 


THE  CLINKER 

Do  you  ever  picture  the  dusty  "Heave" 

Who  toils  in  the  bunkers'  gloom, 
Where  the  air  is  dead  and  clogged  with  dust, 

Mid  silence  of  the  tomb? 
Do  you  pity  the  clinker  who  struggles  alone 

With  no  complaining  sound? 
Well,  if  you  do,  don't  say  it  aloud, 

He  wants  no  pity — that  boy  is  proud, 
He's  making  the  wheels  go  'round. 


32 


THE  NAVAL  OFFICERS'  RUBAIYAT 

LIEUTENANT  M.  A.    (''OMAR")   LEE,  U.  S.  N. 

Wake!    For  the  watch  which  scatters  into  flight, 
The  sleep  belonging  to  the  field  of  night, 

Calls;  and  for  you  no  difference  exists. 
And  you  must  work,  whether  in  dark  or  light. 


Before  the  phantom  of  false  morning-tide, 
Me  thought  a  quartermaster's  striker  cried 

"When  the  thermometer  is  ten  below — 
Why  nods  the  drowsy  officer  inside?" 


The  morning  orders  underneath  a  hatch 
A  cup  of  coffee,  a  piece  of  toast,  a  match, 

With  naught  to  strike  it  on  because  the  box 
Is  wet  with  rain  and  therefore  will  not  scratch. 

33 


THE  NAVAL  OFFICERS'   RUBAIYAT 

The  Chief  of  Bureau  writes  and  having  writ 
Moves  on;  nor  all  your  record  or  your  wit 

Shall  lure  him  back  to  cancel  half  a  line 
Or  change  your  orders  in  the  slightest  bit. 


Yon  rising  moon  that  looks  on  us  again, 

How  oft  hereafter  shall  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  shall  we  rise  and  look 
For  her,  to  see  naught  but  a  cloud  of  rain. 


But  when  some  day  from  navies  I  will  pass 
And  bid  the  rules  and  regs.  all  go  to  grass 

Then  in  my  joyous  errand  will  I  say, 

'Twas  good ;  sh — gif  me — hie — another  glass. 


34 


THE  DEAD  LINE 

The  Nth  Division  part  of  the  ship 
Extends  from  here  to  there ; 

The  Mth  Division  then  begins, 
And  goes — oh,   anywhere. 


The  Nth  Division  scrubs  the  paint 
Up  to  the  limiting  point. 

The  Mth  Division  then  begins, 
And  scrubs  its  little  joint. 


But  at  the  place  where  M  begins 
And  N  comes  to  a  stand. 

The  dirty  Dead  Line  finds  its  place, 
As  bleak  as  No  Man's  Land. 

35 


THE  DEAD  LINE 

For  those  of  us  who  moralize, 
At  the  ways  of  mice  and  men, 

The  Dead  Line  in  its  squalidness. 
Is  well  within  our  ken. 


For  he  who  would  succeed  in  life, 
And  put  all  foes  to  rout, 

Is  he  who  does  more  than  his  bit, 
And  wipes  the  Dead  Line  out  I 


36 


THE  SKY  GUN 

They  put  him  up  high  to  be  close  to  the  sky, 
And  shoot  down  the  enemy  planes; 

He  was  just  a  young  kid  and  yet  what  he  did, 
He  had  to  do  most  with  his  brains. 


Way  up  near  the  stack  where  the  smoke  turned 
him  black 

And  cinders  flew  into  his  eye, 
There  wasn't  much  fun  on  the  long,  weary  run. 

With  the  mist  and  the  rain  scudding  by 


But  he  stood  to  the  job  like  a  good  little  gob, 
Though  he  shivered  a  lot  in  the  cold. 

And  why  should  we  know,  all  snug  down  below, 
'Twas  a  lad  hardly  twenty  years  old? 


Yet  when  on  the  beam  he  sighted  the  gleam 

Of  a  periscope  breaking  the  sea, 
Did  he  wait  for  "Control"? — No — he  shot  on 
the  roll. 

And  I  guess  that  he  saved  you  and  me. 


THE   SKY  GUN 

For  he  kept  after  Fritz  and  knocked  him  to  bits, 
And  sent  him  to  old  Davy  Jones, — 

Ere  we  mustered  on  deck  for  a  look  at  the 
wreck — 
'Twas  the  kid  who  had  saved  all  our  bones. 


So  we  hand  It  to  him  for  his  pep  and  his  vim, 
And  for  getting  old  Fritz  on  the  run. 

It's  a  nice  thing  to  know  that  you're  safe  down 
below. 
When  the  kid  mans  the  little  sky  gun. 


3S 


SMOKES 

LIEUTENANT  H.  E.  CRESSMAN,  U.  S.  N. 

Tobacco  is  a  filthy  weed, 

/  like  it. 
They  say  it  fills  no  normal  need, 

/  like  it. 
It  makes  you  old, 

It  makes  you  lean, 
It  takes  the  hair 

Right  off  your  bean. 
It's  the  worst  dam  stuff  I've  ever  seen, 

But—/  like  it  I 


39 


THE  CENSOR 

LIEUTENANT  J.  VANCE,  U.  S.  N.  R.  F. 

Burled  'neath  oceans  of  home-going  mush; 

Wading  through  pages  of  lovey-dove  slush; 
Killing  his  eyes  with  the  humble  gob's  gush, 

Is  the  censor. 


Laura  Jean  Libby  would  seem  tame  to  him; 

Vows  of  Pelleas  are  lacking  in  vim; 
Romance's  star  becomes  suddenly  dim 

To  the  censor, 


Patience  is  strained  as  he  toils  at  his  job, 
Painfully  reading  the  poor  sailor's  sob; 

Doing  his  bit  he  restraineth  the  mob; 
Does  the  censor. 

40 


THE  CENSOR 

Sliding  through  life,  unthanked  and  unsung. 

Frequently  cursed  and  strangely  unhung, 
From  kegs  of  good  dope  always  pulling  the 
bung, 

Is  the  censor. 


But  when  "quarters"  sound  from  the  heavenly 
land. 

And  pearly  gates  ope'  for  our  immortal  band, 
Saint  Peter  will  say  as  he  puts  out  his  hand, 

"Welcome  censor  1" 


41 


WHEN  THE  GRAND  FLEET  GOES 
TO  SEA 

The  low  scud  flies  across  the  skies, 

The  rain  beats  hard  on  deck; 
The  white-caps  pelt  the  armor  belt, 

The  tide-rips  roar  in  the  neck. 
The  white  mist  sweeps  in  flying  sheets, 

And  dank  is  the  speeding  spray; 
The  black  hulks  loom  in  the  drizzling  gloom, 

Two  cable  lengths  away. 


There  comes  a  rift  as  the  fog  banks  lift 

To  the  height  of  the  turret  tops; 
The  sirens  scream,  a  searchlight  beam, 

Swings  dead  ahead  and  stops. 
And  in  its  light  there  sweep  in  sight 

Destroyers  steaming  free; 
The  speeding  craft  glide  swiftly  aft, 

And  onward  out  to  sea. 
42 


WHEN  THE   GRAND   FLEET   GOES 
TO  SEA 

The  sun  breaks  through  and  reveals  the  blue, 

Behind  the  hovering  grey; 
The  rain  squalls  slack,  the  wind  shifts  back, 

And  drives  the  mist  away. 
There  on  the  beam  comes  now  a  gleam, 

As  ships  turn  sharp  about, 
Swing  to  the  tide  and  swiftly  glide — 

Light-Cruisers  standing  out. 


Off  on  the  bow  the  shore  line  now, 

Glows  green  in  the  morning  light 
Against  grey  stack  and  turret  back. 

And  masthead's  towering  height. 
The  huge  ships  turn,  and  down  astern 

Are  lost  in  the  haze  alee; 
As  propellors  sing  and  rudders  swing — 

Battle  Cruisers  out  to  sea. 


The  moist  wind  dies,  the  clearing  skies 

Shed  warmth  on  the  placid  bay; 
The  lazy  steam  from  off  the  stream 

Drifts  upward  and  away. 
With  hulls  unseen,  but  topmasts  lean. 

Thrust  out  above  the  white. 
The  Battleships  have  left  their  slips. 

And  slowly  pass  from  sight. 

43 


WHEN  THE   GRAND   FLEET   GOES 
TO  SEA 

The  sun  comes  out  and  puts  to  rout 

The  last  of  the  vapory  screen; 
And  there  behold  twixt  headlands  bold 

No  sail  or  craft  is  seen, 
But  far  away  on  horizon  grey 

A  myriad  speck  drifts  on, 
Till  a  deep  smoke  pall  obscures  it  all, 

And  the  Battle  Fleet  is  gone. 


Oh,  wondrous  hour!    Oh,  mighty  power! 

Oh,  work  of  mortal  man! 
Your  cause  is  just — guard  well  your  trust, 

As  only  real  men  can. 
Stand  fast  for  right  throughout  your  fight 

To  keep  the  ocean  free; 
We  stand  or  fall,  we  stake  our  all, 

When  the  Grand  Fleet  goes  to  sea. 


44 


SEA-GOING  MOTHER  GOOSE 

FROM  THE   "ark's"  NURSERY 

Wilhelm  had  a  little  sub, 
-   He  sent  it  out  to  sea, 
And  told  it  to  go  lie  in  wait 

Where  ships  were  sure  to  be. 


It  ran  across  the  Ark  one  day, 
We  nailed  it  to  the  mast; 

Poor  Wilhelm  hasn't  many  left, 
He  loses  them  so  fast. 


Sing  a  song  of  six-pence 

Draw  your  monthly  money. 

It  will  be  in  pounds  and  pence, 

And  won't  the  stuff  look  funny? 


When  the  roll  is  opened 

Hear  the  sailors  moan — 

*'I'd  rather  have  cigar  coupons. 
They  give  away  at  home!" 

45 


SEA-GOING  MOTHER  GOOSE 

Ten  little  submarines,  all  new  and  fine; 

Depth  charge  got  one,  then  there  were  nine. 

Nine  little  submarines,  exponents  of  hate; 
Sky-gun  potted  one  and  then  there  were  eight. 

Eight  little  submarines,  floating  under  heaven; 
Sea-plane  dropped  a  bomb  and  then  there 
were  seven. 

Seven  little  submarines,  up  to  naughty  tricks; 
One  fouled  a  cruiser's  wheels  and  then  there 
were  six. 

Six  little  submarines,  didn't  look  alive; 
One  lost  its  bearings  and  then  there  were  five. 

Five  little  submarines  headed  for  the  shore; 
One  hit  a  big  rock  and  then  there  were  four. 

Four  little  submarines  in  a  heavy  sea; 

One  was  flooded  through  a  hatch,  then  there 
were  three. 

Three  little  subamrines,  getting  mighty  few; 
One  got  in  a  mine  field  and  then  there  were 
two. 

Two  little  submarines,  playthings  of  the  Hun; 
Fritz  got  tangled  in  the  nets  and  then  there 
was  one. 

One  little  submarine  feeling  mighty  sore; 
Skipper  blew  the  damn  thing  up,  and  now 
"there  ain't  no  more." 


THE  GUNS 

With  muzzles  thrust  from  turret  fronts, 

The  long  guns  grimly  peer, 
And  search  for  distant  objects. 

On  the  far  horizon  clear; 
Twelve  steel-grey  lengths  that  silently 

Yet  swiftly  swing  as  one — 
They  halt,  then  hold  relentlessly, 

A  spot  beneath  the  sun. 


A  sharp  command — a  clash  of  steel. 

The  shells  go  ♦rumbling  in; 
A  thud  of  thumping  powder  bags, 

Machinery's  cranking  din- 
Then  silence,  as  the  muzzles  lift 

And  point  into  the  sky; 
One  hears  the  blood  pound  throbbingly, 

And  then  the  word  "Stand-by!" 

47 


THE  GUNS 

A  flash,  a  roar,  the  turrets  whip, 

The  mighty  guns  recoil; 
The  quivering  ship  sags  drunkenly, 

The  nearby  waters  boil; 
The  guns  spring  back  "to  battery." 

The  brown  smoke  rolls  o'erhead, 
And  dancing  heat  waves  shimmer, 

Where  the  singing  shells  have  sped. 


Then  on  the  far  horizon  where 

The  straining  eyes  can  see, 
The  hostile  lofty  topmasts. 

Telling  where  the  hulls  must  be — 
There  one  gazing,  waiting,  breathless, 

Sees  a  flash  against  the  blue. 
And  a  burst  of  flying  wreckage, 

As  the  salvo  crashes  through. 


Oh,  the  guns,  the  smoking  grim  guns, 

So  submissive  in  our  hand. 
Though  they  do  our  every  bidding. 

Though  they  yield  to  each  command, 
Yet  they  strike  in  sudden  anger, 

Dealing  death  and  wound  and  woe, 
Unto  him  who  in  aggression. 

Puts  to  sea  as  freedom's  foe. 


SEA-SURGERY 

Two  keen  destroyers  sailed  one  day, 

And  sped  into  a  battle — 
The  Zeus  and  the  Nubian, 

Two  jolly  little  craft — 
But  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away 

And  guns  had  ceased  to  rattle. 
The  one  was  riddled  forward 

And  the  other  ruined  aft. 


So  they  towed  the  halves  remaining 

To  a  floating  dock  hard  by — 
The  Zeus  and  the  Nubian 

Two  badly  battered  boats — 
Where  they  sewed  the  parts  together 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
And  made  the  good  ship  ZuBiAN 

The  smartest  craft  that  floats. 


49 


HEADS  UP! 

When  the  sea  runs  high  and  the  rain  is  cold, 

And  the  sharp  wind  cuts  your  face, 
When  you're  on  watch  on  a  five-inch  gun 

In  an  unprotected  place; 
When  your  feet  are  numb,  your  hands  are  stiff, 

Your  clothes  are  freezing  wet, 
Perhaps  you'll  rue  the  luckless  day 

You  entered  in  the  Navy's  pay. 
And  yet,  young  man,  that's  not  the  way. 

Heads  up! 


When  you've  been  cussed  because  you  failed, 

Although  you've  done  your  best. 
And  had  to  stand  and  take  the  bumps 

For  the  errors  of  the  rest; 
Or  guessed  all  wrong  on  an  even  chance 

And  hard  words  come  your  way. 
Perhaps  you'll  wish  that  you  were  back 

In  civil  life  and  the  beaten  track. 
And  yet,  young  man,  you're  off  the  track. 

Heads  up! 

50 


HEADS  UP! 

When  down  on  watch  in  the  hot  stoke-hold 

With  the  ship  at  topmost  speed, 
When  the  hungry  boilers  roar  for  coal 

And  call  on  you  to  feed; 
When  the  scorching  heat  saps  all  your  strength, 

And  forced  draft  wears  you  down, 
You  long  for  just  one  moment's  rest 

And  yet  you've  got  to  stand  the  test; 
Conceal  your  weakness  with  a  jest — 

Heads  upl 


Then  on  the  day  when  the  lookout  sights 

The  Hun  on  his  enterprise 
When  his  turret  guns  belch  forth  their  shell 

And  flame  leaps  to  the  skies; 
If  one  gets  home  and  bursts  near  you, 

To  spread  its  sudden  death, 
They'll  never  get  you  on  the  run, 

You'll  fight  back  hard  and  serve  your  gun; 
You'll  cry  until  the  battle's  won, 

Heads  upl 


51 


THE  NATIONAL  INSTITUTION 

Say,  I'll  hand  it  to  the  Limey 
For  the  way  he  does  his  job; 

As  a  seaman  and  a  scrapper  he's  a  bear. 
He  don't  talk  about  himself, 
Like  the  average  Yankee  gob, 

But  at  doin'  things  that  boy  is  simply  "there." 


So  the  things  that  I  don't  savvy, 
In  the  habits  of  the  cuss — 

Well,  I  lay  'em  to  his  funny  limey  way, 
'Cause  underneath  his  skin. 
He's  just  like  any  one  of  us. 

From  God's  Country  in  the  good  old  U.  S.  A. 


Yet  it  jolted  me  a  bit. 
When  I  read  a  limey  log: 

"The  Hun  was  seen  at  sixteen  twenty-three, 
So  we  sounded  'action  stations' — 
Served  an  extra  tot  of  rum — 

And  the  Bos'n  piped  all  hands  below  to  tea!" 


52 


THE  FLEET  INSIDE 

CHAPLAIN  S.  W.  MC  CLELLAND,  U.  S.  N. 

Think  of  the  ships  that  stay  inside, 
Surging  about  to  please  the  tide; 

Never  daring  to  put  to  sea, 

Shackled  like  slaves  in  timidity, 

Fearing  "The  Dragon"  that  steams  outside; 
Pity  the  ships  that  skulk  inside. 

Think  of  the  crew^s  who  man  that  fleet, 

Knowing  "Up  anchor"  must  mean  defeat; 

Scraping  the  barnacles  off  the  hulls; 

Sharing  their  days  with  the  Baltic  gulls; 

Awaiting  the  death  that  stalks  outside — 
Pity  the  men  that  stay  inside! 


Think  of  the  Admiral,  high  in  command, 
Knowing  that  ruin  awaits  his  land, 

Unless  his  fleet  puts  out  to  sea, 
To  fight  against  Democracy. 

He  knows  "The  Dragon"  steams  outside — 
So  pities  himself  and  stays  inside! 


53 


THE  BUNKER  PLATE 

When  Jack  hits  the  beach  and  gets  out  of  reach 
Of  the  irksome  restraint  of  the  navy, 

He  starts  a  big  hole  in  his  fat  pay-day  roll 
On  a  course  that's  decidedly  wavy. 


As  for  shillings  and  pence  he  hasn't  much  sense 
While  florins  and  crowns  get  his  nanny; 

He  can't  tell  a  tuppence  apart  from  a  thruppence 
But  his  eye  for  the  girls  is  uncanny. 


And  when  the  wee  lasses  who  polish  the  glasses 
Return  all  the  change  to  our  mate, 

He  has  but  one  penny,  left  out  of  his  many — 
Known  to  him  as  the  big  Bunker  Plate. 


But  Jack  strolls  along  a-singing  a  song 

Of  verses  without  any  rhyme; 
When  he  gets  back  aboard  he  is  minus  his  hoard, 

But,  oh,  boy!    He  has  had  a  good  time! 


54 


THE  KILL 

In  the  smoking  grey  of  twilight, 

When  the  tumbling  roaring  sea, 

Breaks  aboard  the  frail  destroyer  as  she  drives, 

Up  aloft  on  swaying  foremast, 

There  the  lookout  keeps  his  watch 

On  the  convoy,  with  its  forty  thousand  lives. 


Port  and  starboard  steam  the  escort, 

Buried  first  deep  in  the  trough. 
Climbing  then  upon  the  face  of  mountains  steep. 
Down  astern  the  huge  ships  follow, 

Turning  roaring  seas  aside — 
Steaming  eastward,  gorged  with  soldiers — laden 
deep. 

55 


THE  KILL 

Of  a  sudden,  down  from  windward, 
Comes  the  screaming  warning  wail, 

Of  a  siren,  and  the  booming  of  a  gun. 

As  a  towering  speeding  liner 
Heels  far  over  as  she  turns. 

To  evade  the  two  torpedoes  of  a  Hun. 

In  a  flash  the  escort,  turning. 

Speeds  full  tilt  toward  the  spot, 
Where  the  shells  are  sending  water  spouts  on 

high. 
As  they  near,  the  gun  fire  ceases, 

But  the  boiling  waters  show 
That  a  submarine  is  sounding  there  hard  by. 

Depth  bombs  drop  and  dull  concussion 

Rocks  the  surface  of  the  sea ; 
From  the  depths  the  foaming  troubled  waters 

boil. 
Bringing  bits  of  shattered  wreckage, 

Schools  of  stunned  and  helpless  fish, 
And  the  telltale  spreading  slick  of  pungent  oil. 

Soon  a  black  hulk  breaks  the  surface, 

Then  a  conning  tower  appears — 
The  destroyers  turn  and  speed  to  the  attack. 
But  a  hatch  is  quickly  opened — 

Forms  of  men  come  tumbling  out. 
As  the  stricken,  helpless  boat  sinks  slowly  back. 


THE  KILL 

Men  are  fished  from  chilly  waters, 

Drawn  aboard  by  willing  hands, 
Warmed  and  fed  by  foes  who  still  can  play 

the  game, 
E'en  though  forty  thousand  soldiers 

Might  have  met  death  at  the  hands 
Of  a  sneaking,  cowardly  Hun  who  knows  no 
shame. 

Aye,  no  matter  how  they  foul  us. 

We  shall  keep  on  fighting  clean, 
Buoyed  up  by  faith  in  justice  and  in  right, 
For  'twere  better  far  to  perish. 

Than  to  live  for  many  years. 
Knowing  well  you'd  won,  but  fought  a  dirty 
fight. 


57 


THE  SWEEPERS 

Two  little  ''drifters,"  stumpy  and  squat 

Towing  a  sweep  between, 
Breasting  the  waves  of  the  wild  North  Sea, 

Their  harvest  of  mines  to  glean; 
Two  little  sweepers  alone  in  the  bay, 

Dragging  their  weary,  monotonous  way — 
The  "Annabelle  Lucy"  and  "Mary  Sans  Souci" 

Went  out  in  the  channel  to-day. 


Theirs  is  the  drudgery,  work  without  glory, 

Theirs  the  monotonous  life; 
Clearing  the  channel  of  mines  for  the  fleet. 

Their  part  of  the  wearisome  strife — 
Till  a  dull  detonation  from  over  their  way, 

Sends  a  column  of  water — a  pillar  of  spray 
And  the  "Annabelle  Lucy"  without  the  "Sans 
Souci" 

Comes  back  to  the  harbor  to-day. 


58 


STORIES  FOR  OUR  SONS 

ENSIGN  HUTCHISON,  U.  S.  N. 

Yes!    Daddy  knows  right  well,  my  lad, 

The  story  of  the  fleet 
That  met  the  Huns  off  Coney  Isle 

In  Hipper's  great  defeat. 


I  served  a  twelve-inch  gun,  my  lad, 

Upon  the  gallant  Ark, 
And  fought  the  fight  without  respite 

From  early  dawn  till  dark. 


We  left  our  base  the  year  before, 
And  steamed  at  forty  knots, 

Until  we  heard  the  cry  of  "smoke" 
And  saw  them  there  in  spots. 

59 


STORIES  FOR  OUR  SONS 

Aye,  there  they  were  at  twenty  yards, 
A  thousand  ships  in  line; 

We  opened  fire  when  "mess-gear"  went 
And  sank  them  all  by  nine. 


Yes!    Daddy  was  right  there,  my  lad, 
He  served  a  five-inch  gun, 

And  all  alone  killed  Kaiser  Bill, 
Before  the  war  was  won. 


60 


THE  FLYING-BLOKE 

The  Flying-Bloke  Is  up  aloft, 
Sharp  against  the  sky — 

Twisting,  turning,  motor  humming, 
Mid  the  clouds  on  high. 


Splendid  youth  is  soaring  there, 
Cheeks  arc  glowing  red, 

Shining  eyes  look  keenly  out, 
For  the  foe  ahead. 


Straightway  to  unequal  combat, 
Speeds  his  battle-plane, 

Firing  quickly,  swooping  upward, 
Diving  back  again. 


Then  It  halts — a  bit  uncertain, 
Flutt'ring^wheels  around. 

Drifts  into  a  spinning  nose-dive. 
Crashes  to  the  ground. 

6i 


THE  FLYING-BLOKE 

There's  an  empty  platform  waiting, 

On  the  turret  bare; 
In  the  mess-room,  by  the  table, 

Stands  an  empty  chair. 


The  Flying-Bloke  has  fallen, 
Like  many  gallant  men, 

But  his  soul  will  keep  on  soaring, 
Till  it  finds  peace  again. 


62 


THE  COXSWAIN'S  LINE 

LIEUT.  H.  E.  CRESSMAN,  U.  S.  N. 

This  is  the  story   the   Coxsivain   told  to 
a  hunch   of  boots  in   the  forward  hold. 

Shanghaied  by  a  whaler  I  worked  as  a  sailor, 

And  fetched  up  in  old  Bombay. 
After  six  weeks  afloat  in  an  old  whaleboat, 

That  steered  like  a  stack  of  hay. 

I  know  the  shores  of  the  lonely  Azores 

And  the  lights  of  Sidney  Head; 
Where  we  lay  close  hauled  and  the  leadsman 
called 

The  depth  of  the  channel's  bed. 

IVe  been  through  the  Straights  and  the  Golden 
Gates, 

Mined  diamonds  for  months  by  the  karat; 
IVe  been  in  Algiers  stayed  in  London  for  years, 

And  climed  to  the  top  of  Mt.  Ararat. 

I've  sailed  a  ship  in  the  hurricane's  grip, 

And  a  rotten  old  tub  was  she; 
Where  we  saved  our  hides  and  little  besides 

From  a  wreck  in  the  old  North  Sea. 

63 


THE  COXSWAIN'S  LINE 

I've  seen  the  Soudan  and  the  heart  of  Japan, 
And  I've  speckled  the  Indian  Seas, 

I've  travelled  the  Highlands;  been  all  through 
the  Islands 
And  froze  in  the  bleak  Pyrenes. 

I've  been  Captain  and  crew  and  Bos'n  too, 
Sailed  round  the  Horn  thirty  times, 

On  a  ship  that  was  built  like  a  crazy  quilt, 
With  a  cargo  of  liquor  and  limes. 

I  served  in  the  Corps  in  the  late  Spanish  war, 

And  never  once  had  a  rest. 
I  was  shot  in  the  spine  and  dropped  out  of  line 

And  died  with  a  ball  in  my  chest. 

This  is  the  story  the  Coxswain  told  to 
a  bunch   of  boots  in  the  forward  hold. 


THE  CAPTAIN 

Up  where  the  lofty  topmast  looms 
Against  the  glow  of  western  sky, 

Where  the  jutting  bridge  is  set  midway 
And  gleaming  flags  of  signals  fly, 

There  stands  the  Captain  gazing  out 
To  seaward — sharp  and  keen  of  eye. 

His  grizzled  hair  against  the  blue 
Of  battered  cap  with  rim  of  gold. 

His  ruddy  cheeks  with  leathern  lines, 
His  kindly  face  with  features  bold. 

Are  splashed  with  rain  and  flying  spray 
And  lashed  by  stinging  Norther  cold. 

With  level  head  and  steady  hand 

He  guides  our  thirty  thousand  tons, 

His  task  it  is  to  wield  the  might 

Of  throbbing  engines,  flaming  guns 

And  guard  with  care  the  precious  lives 
Of  twice  a  thousand  trusting  ones. 

65 


THE   CAPTAIN 

For  we  below  who  fondly  place 

Our  lives  and  fortunes  in  his  care, 

So  love  that  weatherbeaten  face, 

Those  kindly  eyes,  that  grizzled  hair, 

That  we  would  follow  unto  death, 
If  he  it  were  who  led  us  there. 


66 


Thiau  court! 
SING  A  SONG  FOR  NAVY 

ENSIGN   HUTCHINSON,   U.   S.  N. 

The  Army's  taken  Thiaucourt 

The  Marines  won  Chateau  Thierry 

Come  give  us  gobs  a  little  chance, 
We're  getting  mighty  weary 

Of  lying  here  and  lying  there 
Without  a  sign  or  rumor 

To  make  us  think  we'll  ever  fight — 
Or  put  us  in  good  humor. 

The  gobs  who  followed  Farragut 
And  shipped  with  O.  H.  Perry, 

Never  hung  around  like  this, 
And  kept  the  lasses  merry. 

Now  all  we  ask  is  one  small  chance 
To  send  some  Huns  to  Davy, 

Come  let  us  tune  the  turrets  up  1 
And  sing  a  song  for  navy. 


67 


ASK  A  BRITISH  NAVAL  OFFICER 

Ask  a  British  Naval  Officer  to  tell  you  of 
himself, 

And  you'll  get  a  change  of  subject — that  is  all. 
Ask  a  British  Naval  Officer  to  tell  about  a  mate, 

And  he'll  talk  you  up  against  the  nearest  wall. 


Now  the  night  the  "K-10"  tied  up  to  our  gang- 
way in  a  fog, 
And  we  had  her  skipper  over  here  for  tea. 
He  was  yarning  of  the  rigors  of  the  submarine 
patrol 
In  the  "Bight"  and  in  the  stormy  Baltic  Sea. 

Three   small   H-Boats,   so   he   told   us,   had   a 
certain  rendezvous 
Where    they    waited    for    their    orders    to 
proceed. 
On  the  surface  they  were  drifting,  like  a  flock 
of  sleepy  ducks, 
And  of  danger  taking  not  the  slightest  heed, 

68 


ASK  A  BRITISH  NAVAL  OFFICER 

When  they  suddenly  discovered  that  a  stranger, 
bobbing  up 
Where   no   one   had    been   the   moment  just 
before, 
Had  increased  their  aggregation  from  a  cozy 
little  three 
To  a  most  unhealthful  crowd  composed  of 
four. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye-lash  diving-rudders 
jammed  down  hard. 
Motors  hummed  and  in  a  moment  all  were 
gone. 
One  H-Boat,  the  more  conservative,  continued 
on  its  way, 
But  the  others  stuck  around  and  carried  on. 

Soon  a  wary  eye  projected  from  the  surface  of 
the  sea. 
Peered  about  a  bit  and  found  another  one, 
Recognition  signals  spouted,  then  two  friendly 
submarines. 
Scanned  the     ocean  for  the  presence  of  the 
Hun. 

Now  our  Captain — he  who  told  us — saw  ahead 
and  on  the  bow 
One  more  periscope  peep  out  at  him  and  wait, 
So  he  cruised  around  before  it  showing  just  the 
faintest  feather 
To  distract  attention  from  his  nearby  mate. 

69 


ASK  A  BRITISH  NAVAL  OFFICER 

I 

Each   one   knew  the   other   hostile,   one   man- 
ouvered  for  a  shot, 
While  our  captain  made  himself  a  target  boat, 
Till  his  friend  could  get  position  on  the  un- 
suspecting Hun — 
The  remainder  of  the  story  we  will  quote: 

"While  the   Hun,  the  shifty  beggar,   tried   to 
outmanoeuver  me 
He  didn't  even  sight  the  little  mate. 
Who  just  planted  two  torpedoes  in  the  rascal's 
blinkin'  hide. 
Sending  Fritzie  to  a  most  distressing  fate. 

And  I  thought  it  was  so  sporting  of  my  friend 
to  put  him  down — 
You'll  admit  it  was  a  rather  ripping  show — 
That  I  got  the  Force  Commander  to  report  it 
when  we  moored. 
And  to  recommend  him  for  the  D.  S.  O." 

Ask   a    British    Naval    Officer    to    talk    about 
himself. 
And  you'll  get  a  change  of  subject — that  is  all. 
Ask  a  British  Naval  Officer  to  talk  about  his 
mate 
And  he'll  back  you  up  against  the  nearest 
wall. 


70 


SCOTLAND  FOREVER! 

Sandy  McNab  is  the  canniest  Scot 
Thot  iver  came  oot'  th'  heather; 

The  mon  is  sae  thrifty  his  knees  are  a'  bare, 
No  matter  how  chill  is  the  weather. 


When  puffin'  his  pipe,  if  the  baccy  he  smokes 

Ha'  cost  'im  a  coople  o'  pence, 
He  gets  nae  enjoyment  at  a'  frae  th'  weed, 

Cause  he's  worried  aboot  the  expense. 


An'  if  he  be  smokin'  a  wee  bit  o'  Jock's 
That  he  borrowed  when  Jock  never  saw, 

He  rams  the  old  pipe  so  dom  fu'  o'  the  stuff. 
That  he  can't  make  the  bloomin'  thing  draw 


n 


CROSSES 

A  few  years  ago  we  didn't  think  much 

About  crosses  of  any  old  kind. 
In  the  old  shallow  life  with  no  struggle  or 
strife, 

A  cross  was  a  hard  thing  to  find. 
Perhaps  the  most  frequent  of  all  long  ago, 

Was  the  one  without  glitter  or  gloss, 
That  the  crook  handed  out  to  a  pal  who  was 
pinched 

And  known  as  the  old  "double  cross" 

But  then  came  the  war  with  its  big  decorations 

For  men  who  had  fought  a  good  fight; 
And  all  of  these  medals  were  good  things  to 
have, 

When  awarded  for  valor  or  might. 
But  out  of  their  number  one  stands  all  alone. 

Along  with  the  dregs  and  the  dross, 
Awarded  for  killing  of  women  and  children. 

And  known  as  the  Hun's  Iron  Cross. 

And  there  is  the  emblem  awarded  to  him, 

Who  dies  over  there  in  the  battle. 
Perhaps  it's  surmounted  by  tin-hat  or  cap. 

And  accoutrements  no  more  to  rattle. 
A  monument  this  to  him  who  gave  all. 

And  now  lies  asleep  'neath  the  moss, 
A  fitting  reward  for  the  Great  Sacrifice — 

The  soldier  boy's  own  wooden  cross. 

72 


CROSSES 

But  out  of  the  fight  as  it  rages  and  roars, 

A  Hell  running  rampant  on  earth, 
There  looms  up  ahead  for  the  living  and  dead, 

A  vision  we've  seen  since  our  birth, 
Inspiring  us  all  though  we  stand  or  we  fall. 

To  follow  nor  reckon  the  loss — 
And  trust  all  to  Him  who  gave  up  His  life. 

And  left  us  His  wonderful  Cross. 


^3 


SCUTTLEBUTT 

CHAPLAIN  S.  W.  MCCLELLAND,  U.  S.  N. 

We're  going  out  from  Portland 
We're  on  our  way  to  Kiel; 

We're  off  to  meet  the  President — 
New  dope  with  every  meal. 


We  put  to  sea  on  Sunday — 
No,  Monday  is  the  day, 

And  Brest  the  destination — 
Or  Malta  far  away! 


We'll  make  New  York  for  Christmas, 

Or  reach  the  Dixie  line; 
Well — we  don't  know  where  we're  going. 

But  the  "scuttlebutt"  is  fine. 


n 


THE  MINE  FORCE 

If  life  means  little  more  to  you, 

Than  something  to  be  idly  risked, 

Perhaps  the  thing  for  you  to  do 

Is  join  the  Mine  Force  and  be  whisked 

Up  to  the  northern  latitudes 

Where  men  who  talk  at  all  of  strife, 
Must  deal  in  common  platitudes 

Like  sudden  death  and  blighted  life. 

Up  there  you'll  calmly  put  to  sea 

On  some  converted  merchant  ship 

So  loaded  down  with  TNT 

And  fulminate,  on  every  trip 

That  if  perchance  some  careless  gob 

Or  other  menace  unforseen 
Like  floating  mine  fields  on  the  job, 

Or  Fritzie  in  a  submarine, 

75 


THE  MINE  FORCE 

Should  furnish  you  the  sudden  jolt 

That  it  requires  to  detonate 
Your  cargo,  like  a  thunderbolt, 

You'll  never  even  guess  your  fate. 

And  when  you  sew  the  dragons  teeth. 

That  splash  and  quickly  downward  go, 

To  lurk  in  silence  underneath 

The  wave,  in  wait  for  friend  or  foe, 

Who  knows  but  what  some  other  day, 

The  seed  thus  sown  by  your  own  hand, 

May  rise  and  bump  you  on  your  way 

To  some  more  peaceful,  fairer  land? 

And  worst  of  all  when  war  is  done 

And  other  gobs  can  homeward  sail. 

No  doubt  you'll  have  to  be  the  one 
To  steam  out  in  a  raging  gale 

And  sweep  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

For  these  same  bits  of  fulminate, 

And  nervous  cans  of  TNT 

All  primed  and  cocked  to  detonate. 

And  so  if  life  means  naught  to  you — 
Or  if  you  really  want  a  thrill. 

You'll  find  that  in  this  service  new — 

The  Mine  Force — you  will  get  your  fill, 
76 


THE  MINE  FORCE 

Up  in  the  northern  latitudes 

Where  men  who  speak  at  all  of  strife, 
Must  deal  in  common  platitudes 

Like  sudden  death  and  blighted  life. 


77 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

The  Grand  Fleet  lay  in  the  Firth  of  Forth, 

That  great,  eventful  day. 
When  the  news  was  flashed  around  the  world, 

That  the  Hun  had  come  to  bay. 
And  signed  the  blooming  armistice. 

That  took  our  chance  away. 
To  sink  him  in  the  sea  some  misty  morning. 

Unlike  the  folks  who  lived  ashore. 

We  didn't  start  to  cheer. 
But  dully  read  the  message. 

Which  confirmed  our  growing  fear. 
That  the  Hun  fleet  never  would  come  out 

To  let  us  try  our  gear. 
And  shoot  him  full  of  holes,  some  misty  morning. 

And  then  an  old  tanker,  all  covered  with  grease, 
'Gan    tooting    her    siren    and    spelling    out 
"Peace" 

Spitting  and  steaming. 
And  howling  and  screaming. 
The  racket  was  heard  to  the  very  North  Sea. 
And  the  Grand  Fleet  all  smiled, 
At  the  message  so  wild, 
For  the  signal  they  heard 
Was  a  comical  word: 
Spelling  "peace"  with  an  "s"  instead  of  a  "c"! 

78 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

Soon  thousands  of  whistles  and  sirens  joined  in; 
The  cheering  of  sailors  and  clattering  din 
Of  rollicking  folks  as  they  beat  upon  tin; 
The  bells  were  all  ringing, 
The  sailors  all  singing, 
With  trumpets  and  bugles  all  blaring  like  sin. 

And  when  shades  of  night  spread  over  the  bay, 

A  gleaming  searchlight  projected  its  ray, 
To    the    heavens — where    hundreds    of    others 
straightway. 
Reached  up  to  the  clouds  and  turned  night 
into  day. 
Then  rockets  shot  up  and  burst  overhead — 
Very-Lights,  star-shells  and  night-signals  red, 
Sparkling  and  glowing, 
And  fading  and  growing. 
The  ear-splitting  noise  might  have  wakened  the 
dead. 

Then  up  at  the  mastheads  against  the  black  sky, 

There  swung  to  the  breeze  and  floated  on  high, 

The  flags  of  the  Allies — a  light  swinging  by — 

Bathed   their  folds  with  its  beam  till   they 

looked  just  the  same! 
As  the  glowing  and  flashing  bright  tongues  of 
a  flame. 

And  then  came  the  roaring 
Of  mens  voices  soaring 
In  full-throated  cheering 
And  joyous  acclaim, 

79 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

Then  out  from  the  side  of  a  Yank  battleship 

A  fifty  foot  boat  started  out  on  a  trip; 
A  band  was  on  deck,  but  the  music,  I  fear, 
Might  have  shattered  the  drum  of  a  sensitive 
ear. 
It  w^as  "Hail,  Brothers,  Hail!  For  the  Gang  is 
All  Here!" 
And  as  they  approached  the  flagship,  "Q.  E." 
And  arrived  at  the  spot  where  the  Limeys  could 
see. 
The  beam  of  her  searchlight  swung  over  their 
way. 
And  lighted  them  up  just  as  clear  as  the  day. 
And   at  the   boats   stern   Old   Glory  waved 
freely, 
Floating  majestically — beautiful — really ! 

Then  up  from  the  British  came  three  rousing 
cheers. 
That  swelled  in  sweet  music  to  listening  ears; 
While  the  searchlight  beam  followed  the  boat 
out  of  sight. 
And  the  next  ship  in  line  picked  it  up  with 
her  light. 

With  such  an  ovation 
The  great  British  nation 
Gave  Thanks 
To  the  Yanks 
For  their  part  in  the  fight. 

80 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

The  boat  passing  on  to  the  end  of  the  line, 
Found  her  own  "chummy-ship"  which  she 
knew  by  the  sign : 
"Southampton"  in  letters  writ  onto  the  stern; 

And  then,  close  aboard,  the  boat  made  a  turn 
And  swung  alongside  'mid  the  welcoming  shout 
From  the  Britisher's  sailors — the  band  tumb- 
led out — 
Mid  welcoming  throngs  they  were  caught  in  a 
jam 
Yet  they  managed  to  strike  up  "Oh,   How 
Dry  I  Am" 
Shades  of  George  Washington!  Ghosts  of  Corn- 
wallisl 
Who  could  have  dreamed  such  a  thing  would 
befall  us? 

Dancing  and  prancing, 
Bandmen  all  frantic 
Officers  vieing 
To  find  a  new  antic — 
And  yet  you  will  have  to  admit  'twas  romantic! 

Glasses  were  brought  and  all  hands  drank  a  toast 
Some  to  the  guests  and  some  to  the  host; 

"Here's  to  the  President!  Here's  to  the  King! 
Long  may  they  live  and  now  let  us  sing!" 

And  so  arm  in  arm  and  far  into  the  night 

They  tautened  their  friendship  and  promised 
to  fight 

8z 


ARMISTICE  NIGHT 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  and  firmly  to  stand — 
That  freedom  and  peace  might  abide  on  the 
land. 
Till  at  last  came  "good  bye"  over  sparkling  wine, 
When  they  joined  in  a  circle  and  sang  "Auld 
Lang  Syne." 
As  the  Yankees  shoved  ofl  at  exactly  one  bell, 
They  gave  their  good  friends  the  Annapolis 
yell; 
And  shouted  "good-by  folks,  your  party  was 
swell!" 
While  the  Limeys  agreed  they'd  enjoyed  it  as 
well. 
'Mid  singing  the  boat  steamed  away  in  the  dark; 
And  made  its  way  back  alongside  of  the  ARK. 
No  doubt  the  next  day  they  all 

were  a  fright. 
But  who  had  a  care  on  Armistice 
Night! 


THE  SAILOR'S  LUCK 

You  ask  me,  stranger,  why  I  look 

So  glum,  and  grouse  a  bit, 
When  the  blinkin'  war  is  over, 

And  you're  celebratin'  it? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Yank,  I'm  fed  up, 

Disappointed,  don't  you  know, 
By  the  vagaries  of  fortune. 

As  they  came  to  Scapa  Flow. 


Four  long  years  I  stayed  on  duty, 

Up  on  Flotta's  dreary  face, 
On  the  mine  fields  at  the  entrance, 

And  of  leave  had  not  a  trace. 
There  I  listened  on  the  gadjet. 

Called  the  deep-mine  hydrophone. 
That  no  sub  could  come  a  snooping. 

Lest  its  presence  there  be  known. 

83 


THE  SAILOR'S  LUCK 

Four  long  years  of  tiresome  waiting 

Without  any  hostile  sound, 
Then  one  night  a  "fish"  came  humming 

To  the  nets,  and  cruised  around, 
Till  the  'phones  had  nicely  plotted, 

Her  position  at  the  gate. 
And  a  mighty  detonation. 

Sent  old  Fritzie  to  his  fate. 


Swarms  of  boats  were  sent  to  track  him, 

Drags  soon  found  him  as  he  lay; 
Divers  dropped  down  on  his  deck  plates, 

And  they  heard — so  they  all  say — 
Tapping  on  the  inner  bottom, 

Dots  and  spaces,  sending  "Help,'* 
Or  the  word  a  Hun  would  signal — 

Sneakin',  dirty,  skulkin'  whelp  1 


So  they  called  the  divers  from  him, 

Sent  a  keen  destroyer  past; 
Dropped  a  heavy  "ash-can"  on  him — 

And  I  guess  he  breathed  his  last; 
For  the  divers  then  reported. 

As  they  towed  him  off  in-shore. 
That  they  couldn't  hear  the  noises, 

Of  the  tapping — any  morel 
84 


THE  SAILOR'S  LUCK 

Now  you  ask  me  why  I'm  grousing, 

And  I'll  tell  you,  sir, — why  blime — ^ 
Shoot  me  for  a  blinkin'  Hun, 

Call  me  leather-neck  or  Limey — 
If  the  hard-luck  which  pursued  me, 

Bringing  all  its  bloomin'  woe, 
Didn't  give  me  leave  to  London, 

So  I  missed  the  whole  damned  show! 


85 


THE  SURRENDER 
1.   The  Vanquished 

Their  dull  hulks  loom  against  the  gloom 
Of  the  fog  bank's  dismal  grey, 

Their  pace  so  slow  we  scarcely  know 
The  ships  are  under  way. 


The  smoke,  dead  black,  creeps  from  the  stack, 

And  hangs  as  a  listless  pall: 
Black  standards  drape  like  funeral  crepe 

And  death  lies  over  all. 


The  silent  guns  of  the  sullen  Huns 
No  more  their  voices  use; 

Yet  mute,  acclaim  the  burning  shame 
Of  the  High  Sea  Fleet's  last  cruise. 


THE  SURRENDER 

2.  The  Victors 

Our  bright  sides  gleam  In  the  sun's  tinged  beam 
Where  it  streams  through  the  morning  haze; 

The  bow  waves  curl  in  foaming  swirl, 
As  we  speed  our  several  ways. 


The  forced  draft  roars  while  grey  smoke  pours, 

And  is  lost  far  down  alee, 
Our  colors  fly  at  topmast  high — 

Bright  flags  of  victory. 


Our  guns  are  manned  and  ready  stand, 

To  speak  with  throats  aflame, 
To  the  Cult  of  Might  who  dared  not  fight, 

And  would  not  play  the  game. 


3.  The  Faith 

Oh  God  to  Thee,  we  of  the  sea 
Give  thanks  for  the  wondrous  light 

That  reveals  Thy  power  in  this  Thine  hour, 
The  hour  of  Truth  and  Right. 


87 


PEGGY  OF  THE  PIER 

Peggy,  a  wee,  smiling  bonnle  scotch  lass 

Who  lived  at  the  head  of  the  Pier, 
Where  it  thrust  its  stone  length  from  the  foot 
of  the  bluflf 

With  the  Bridge  of  the  Forth  towering  near, 
Owned  a  novelty  shop  where  she  sold  to  the  men, 

Who  landed  from  grim  fighting  craft — 
"Penny  thrillers,"  the  papers,  tobacco  and  such, 

While  she  jollied  and  bantered  and  laughed. 


From  the  Admiral  down  to  the  lowest  "A.  B." 

Who  stopped  at  her  counter  to  buy. 
All  held  in  respect  the  wholesome  young  miss, 

With  the  gleam  of  a  smile  in  her  eye. 
And  though  many  had  wooed  with  ardor  and 
fire. 

She  mocked  them  and  sent  them  away, 
Till  a  smart  yankee  gig  swung  into  the  Pier 

One  sunshiny,  sparkling  day, 

88 


PEGGY  OF  THE  PIER 

As  the  bronzed  coxswain  spun  his  brass  steering 
wheel, 
And  backed  smartly  up  alongside, 

'Tis  rumored  that  Peggy  glanced  softly  his  way, 
And  opened  her  blue  eyes  so  wide, 
That  she  took  in  the  cut  of  his  jib  at  a  glance, 
And  her  heart  skipped  a  flutter  or  two 

At  the  stranger,  who  promptly  gazed  back  with 
a  smile. 
Like  any  good  sailor  would  do. 


And  in  the  long  months  that  the  big  yankee  ships 

Lay  anchored  down  east  of  the  Pier, 
There  followed  a  courtship  in  true  yankee  style, 

At  least  that  is  what  we  all  hear; 
'Till  Peggy  gave  in  and  married  the  chap. 

Thus  showing  the  cordial  relations, 
'Tween  the  rank  and  the  file  who  fight  on  the 
seas, 

Defending  the  great  allied  nations. 


89 


"GOOD-BYE-E-E-E!" 

Yankee  ships  are  underway, 

Standing  out  to  sea — 
British  ships  escorting  them 
Colors  floating  free; 
Signals  passing  ship  to  ship, 
Flash  "Good  luck  and  pleasant  trip  I" 
Parting  cheers  on  every  lip. 
Singing  "Good-Bye-e-e-e!" 

British  ships  are  turning  now. 

Standing  toward  the  shore; 
Yankee  ships  are  steaming  on — 
Home-bound  pennants  soar; 
Misty  eyes  with  sorrow  gaze; 
Thoughts  return  to  happy  days; 
Friends  are  lost  in  distant  haze — 
Grand  Fleet  days  are  o'er. 

Yankee  thoughts  now  homeward  fly, 

Far  across  the  sea ; 
Christmas  in  our  native  land, 
Beckons  you  and  me. 
Yet  our  hearts  must  long  retain, 
Memories  of  the  message  plain, 
''Britain  wants  you  back  again. 
Good-luck  and  'Good-Bye-e-e-e'T 


90 


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